A Distorted Romance
by AmericanoTeaKirkland
Summary: Contains: Gore, Romance, Fluff, Yaoi/Homosexuality, Violence, Insanity. This is a 2p Hetalia 2p England and 2p America 2P!USUK fan fic. Through out the chapters there will be flashes of possible violent realities. None of the following belongs to me except the story. The characters belong to all legal parties connected to the show Hetalia and creator Hidekazu Himaruya.


CHAPTER 1

Oliver is wrapped and fully dressed in a pink fuzzy robe with baby blue striped pajamas. He is reading a cook book at his round kitchen table about candy covered fruit. Without speaking out loud he thinks "Oooh this looks rather nice..."

He is browsing the pictures within the pages of a certain cook book he picked out from his collection. For turning each page he flicks the paper's edges with his thumb and tongue. He licks his thumb to prevent the pages from sticking together and also to make it easier to read. From all the times of browsing this cook book so much while baking, the edges of the book's pages have left sugar residue. The sugar gets onto his fingers. Which he enjoys licking off slowly... Oliver is turned on a page looking at a vanilla chocolate covered strawberry with rainbow dot sprinkles.

Creaky old paint chipped stairs whine underneath heavy footsteps. Each wooden plank starts bowing under the pressure as the stairs are climbed slowly.

Oliver's front door ringed a cute musical number, fitting for his sweet humble abode. His door bell sounds off like Nightingale birds. It's 10 o'clock at night, a time where Nightingales could be singing in reality. But... it's the dead of winter. Dark, desolate, and cold outside- save for inside his neighbor's cozy homes. Which he can see a family by the fireplace and children laughing... He shakes his head leaving his train of thought. Peeking onto the neighbors so rudely- he chastises himself quickly and gets up from his chair at the kitchen table.*

"Coming!"

He opens the front door and a freezing gust of air bursts forth onto him. Snowflakes sneak into the house, as well hitting and dissolving across the door frame. The snowflakes were carried from riding on the gust of wind. At the front door stood is his tall, tan, crude man... Allen. That baby boy that grew into something vicious. He adored the boy's blood red eyes every time he saw them. There was nothing going on between them... Oliver just notices all these tiny details about Allen's body. But Allen tends to call Oliver "Sugar" after his American western films. That sounds confusing at first because his 1p counterpart loves Western films. But Allen simply likes the horses, not so much the concept of rodeos and corralling the animals. Allen also calls him Sugar after his baking-when Oliver is NOT trying to kill everyone with it.

Allen is standing in the door way with his black heavy snow boots dirtying Oliver's pink welcome mat with dirty disgusting snow. Oliver pouts at the sight of it. Oliver had trailed his eyes down to start at his feet and observe up his figure. Allen's feet are pointed with toes touching each other and heels outward. Speckled in snowflakes are his dark worn out jeans that are rolled up for the snow boots. His back is hunched over from being cold, possibly shivering under his huge coat. Rugged hands are in the pockets of his signature coat, mostly likely without mittens. It was a hassle to get this boy to wear his mittens. Allen moved out years ago, and he is the most mature America, but he always forgets his mittens. Perhaps Allen thinks going bare handed is manly. If Allen still lived here with him Oliver would have gladly dressed him. Draped around Allen's neck is, interestingly enough, a long white wool scarf. Part of his neck is exposed as well as his chin. His light cocoa skin is so cute in the snow...

Allen smiles "Hey Sugar. Can I come in?"

Oliver has always wanted to push someone down his stair case... He tried with the mail man once. He decided in the end that it was too risky for witnesses in broad day light. A flash image of Allen on the ground bleeding out onto his concrete pathway flew into his imagination making his eye twitch with insanity.

Allen becomes worried and reaches his hand out "Oliver?"

Oliver rubs his face out in both his hands to forget that morbid thought. He pouts at the dirty boots again before looking at Allen dead on in the eyes to try and find out his intentions. Hesitantly Oliver is swayed enough to let the poor guy in. It is snowing hard outside...

"You know the drill." Allen scoffs at this bothersome routine. "Really?" Oliver rolls his eyes at him. "Yes." Oliver steps outside on the porch with Allen. He pats Allen down like an officer for any weapons he might be hiding. Once clear, Oliver steps back inside his house. He waves with hand in politely guiding him inside.

"Welcome!"

Oliver opens the door wider for him to enter. Allen steps into the house and Oliver walks back towards his book. Oliver points over at the shoe rack while walking away from Allen "Boots off." Allen is already removing his boots by the door casually. And he is placing them by the door where he always does. Overall, it is second nature now to him. "I know." He hangs his coat on the coat rack and walks into the kitchen. Oliver is sitting at the kitchen table. "Why did you come here?" Oliver is reading his book, eyes down while asking. Allen changes the subject "You're baking?" Allen steps forward a few paces closer while Oliver is reading. He leans on his tip toes as if too sneak peek inside the book to learn some of his baking secrets. Annoyed Oliver shuts his book and looks up at him from his chair. "Yes. It's rude to ask a question with a question. Now why are you here?"

Allen sighs deeply and tries to make up or even come up with a reason but can't. He didn't have a reason. Or at least not one he could understand. He shifts as if uncomfortable, rubbing his arm awkwardly. "Can't a guy just visit another guy for no real reason?"

Oliver's face breaks down into a twisted smile. "I missed you to." Allen is quiet for a moment.

".. Whatever."


End file.
